


Pretty, Sweet

by maschh



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Belgium National Team, D/s undertones, Edging, FIFA World Cup 2018, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Showers, bit of masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 12:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16786654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maschh/pseuds/maschh
Summary: Belgians at the 2018 World Cup. Dries thinks their success depends on release.





	Pretty, Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> ok i promise this isn't inspired by no nut november!!!!! lmao i write SLOW and i've been writing this for a while. if you don't know what that is... great. good for you. anyway. moving on.

It’s only Eden’s second World Cup and he’s twenty-seven. Two years after that strange Euro when they kept Gareth Bale out but somehow lost to Wales anyway in quarters. _Belgium_ lost to _Wales_. Four years since they went to Brazil, the first Belgian team to make a major tournament in over a decade. People forget. Eden knows they mostly forget because of him. 

People may forget, but they are not Belgian people. The world is on his shoulders and he’d sound like a prick if he said it out loud. Again and again he finds himself envying his little brother, who makes the Belgium squad without a care in the world, smiling through training because it’s exciting enough just to warm up with Lukaku and Fellaini and Courtois. Tibo, who Eden sees every week. Fuck’s sake, kid. 

Training camp is dismal, Russia as frigid and damp as he imagined. But it’s an honor just to be called up, isn’t it. Martinez frowns, makes them run extra sprints till he doesn’t know if his muscles are hot or cold. He feels the gaffer’s eyes on him throughout, and vaguely wonders how sadistic he’ll prove to be. His first real test with the team. Eden doesn’t think he minds as long as they win the whole fucking thing.

It’s Dries that suggests it in the end, the freak. The third day of training camp and they’re all already fed up, the days have dragged from too many sprints and not enough five-a-side. So Eden is doubly exhausted, lying on his made hotel bed with his arm over his face when Dries comes in and slams the door.

“Eh! I was sleeping.”

“No you weren’t,” laughs Dries. (Eden makes a face like _not bad_.) He is chewing gum and scrolling on his phone, lets himself fall onto the other bed with a lightness that Eden cannot imagine. Groggy, Eden props himself up on one side to face Dries, who is older than him but as carefree as his younger brothers.

“What?” Dries says immediately.

“Hmm? Nothing.”

“You’re staring at me, you weirdo.”

“Nah, I was just thinking.” He tsks. Mutters, “Cocky.”

“Thinking? Oh no.”

“About football, don’t worry.”

“Aww.” Dries finally looks up. “Are you worried again, captain?” in an inappropriately camp voice.

“Fuck off,” Eden says, and throws a pillow at him. Dries parries it away harmlessly. “Pfft. Like you have any idea.”

“No, I don’t,” Dries says happily, settling back on his mass of pillows. He shrugs. “Anyway. We win, we don’t win. We’ll give it everything anyway.”

Irked, Eden answers too aggressively. “What, you don’t care now?”

Dries deigns to glance up from his phone again. “Don’t look at me. I’ve already put myself through the ringer enough for this sport.”

Eden laughs bitterly. He’s too sensitive on this topic, he knows, but he’s come this far. “And what have you done?”

Dries sighs, as if Eden is childish for asking. “You don’t want to know.”

“No, I really do, Dries. What have _you_ done that’s made you jaded for the World Cup?”

“Not jaded. Jerk. I’m doing it again this tournament for your information.”

“Doing _what_?” Eden cries. Throws his last pillow at Dries. He might come to regret that.

“Jesus, dude.”

“Put your fuckin phone down. Please.” Eden is the captain for fuck’s sake.

Dries clears his throat dramatically. “Well. This year, at Napoli… we didn’t come for the whole second half of the season. None of us.” He goes back to his phone like Eden is the pervert for asking. 

“Sorry, _what_?” Eden’s sure he hasn’t heard right.

“Oh, come on. You’ve never heard of it? Deprivation _works_. Makes you focused. When the New Year came around, we were first in the table and we didn’t want to jinx it. We made a pact with each other that none of us would come until the end of the season and we’d won the title. Warrior brothers. Dude, it’s an old idea.”

Eden's eyes are wide as can be. “W-what? No one? For _months_?”

Dries shrugs. “Far as I know. I know I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but how’d that work out for you all?”

“Aw, fuck off, you didn’t win it either!” Dries throws a pillow back at him.

“I don’t know if I believe in this system,” Eden laughs.

“Suit yourself. I’m taking every opportunity I can get cause _I_ want to win the World Cup. And you _will_ be the only one in the dressing room, so try not to smile too much, Hazard.”

The first day of the World Cup, but they don’t play Panama until later in the week. The squad has become less subdued, there’s a quiet buzz about them now, the younger guys especially. It feels almost like a World Cup again. And Eden hasn’t come since he last spoke to Dries. He has thought about it, though. Every time Dries looks at him now, there’s a smile on the corner of his lips and his gaze lingers, like he knows. Typical Dries. You open up to him once, and you feel like he’s got your number. Now every time he’s in the shower, he feels a twinge of guilt if he rubs or tugs or even hovers too long.

Distracted, he decides to find out for certain about this … _deprivation_ trend. He doesn’t want to ask his brother – the kid would do anything Dries said anyway. Instead, he asks the last person off the training pitch. It happens to be Fellaini, which makes it all the more embarrassing. 

The giant brow furrows. “What?!” he says sharply, and Eden cowers just a little. “I – I don’t think I know what you are talking about.” He walks off, shaking his head, glancing back at Eden over his shoulder.

He’s almost scared to bring it up again, but he’s now gone days without masturbating and has he done all that for nothing? Whatever happened to captain’s privilege?

He squares his shoulders, mounts all the authority his five-foot-eight frame will allow him, and approaches Courtois in the locker room. He’s not the pervert here. “Hey, Tibo.”

“Yeah?” The big Belgian is struggling to take off his training pants. “What is it, Eden?”

In a low voice: “Dries says the dressing room is, uh…” Eden has been embarrassed enough today. “Well, he says they’re not… until the end of the World Cup.”

Thibaut frowns and Eden can feel that he’s blushing. “What do you mean?”

Eden clears his throat. “Dries… says… that the team has all _agreed_ not to—”

“Ohhh!” Courtois bursts out laughing. He’s so loud that everyone is now looking at him, gangly as hell in just his briefs. “Yeah. Yeah, haha. Pretty silly, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eden chuckles. “Just stupid, right?”

“What, did you not know?” asks Thibaut, suddenly serious.

“Uh, not really. I wasn’t sure. I asked Marouane also, but—”

“Psh! You idiot,” Thibaut laughs. “He’s so religious, he’s hardly going to tell you…”

Thoroughly embarrassed, Eden puts his face in his hands and Thibaut grabs him around the shoulders. He rubs his buzz cut till Eden pushes him off.

“So are you in as well?” Eden asks when they’ve split apart.

Thibaut shrugs. “Think I have to be. First choice goalkeeper, after all. Got to stay focused.”

Eden shakes his head before heading off to his locker. “I can’t believe you all really think this works.”

“Captain’s a slave to the team, remember!” Courtois says as he goes.

The night before the Panama match, Dries sends a text to the group chat that confirms it. Eden is half impressed with himself and half disappointed that he has been so honest about not jerking it for days, since before their matches even started. He can’t stop himself from nudging it every now and then, he is a man after all, but the electricity that spikes with even just the slightest of touches – it’s like he’s nineteen again. He’s not at all sure this has made him more focused.

But then Dries scores an absolute beauty against Panama to break the deadlock. “I’m just saying,” he cries at dinner that night, “That was one of my _best_ goals. It felt so, just, easy? I don’t know. And I was, like – completely _zen_ the entire match…” And then he’s drowned out by the raucous laughter and agreement. Martinez is oblivious, too overwhelmed by the result and the occasion to notice the players’ overzealous reaction.

Eden is rooming with him again, and Dries has not turned it off even later that night. “You know,” he announces, without looking up from his phone, “I think it was the edging that did it.”

Eden grunts from his spot on the floor, where he is rolling out his quads. Dries peers over the bed to get a glimpse of him. “I said it was the _edging_ that did it.”

He’s pretty much always rude to Dries, but it’s just so _easy_. “’S like you never scored a goal before.”

“Bitch,” Dries hmphs, and says triumphantly, “You’re just mad that I scored before you,” before going back to his phone.

Eden chuckles as quietly as he can because Dries isn’t really wrong. He’s bored enough to take the bait. “What’s edging, Dries?” he sighs.

“No, forget it.”

“ _Dries_. Tell me. Please.”

“Not until you score a goal at the World Cup,” Dries laughs.

Eden stops what he’s doing and rises to his knees so he can look at Dries in the face. His glare is so intense that he detects a hint of fear, despite the fact that he is still on the floor. That soothes his ego. He cracks the smallest of smiles and says “okay” before he goes back to rolling.

They play Tunisia and Eden wins a penalty after four minutes. He grins madly at Dries after he slots it home, holds him tight when he scores again. First and second goal at a World Cup. It feels so overdue that he is only aware of the ache in his legs, and not the crowd’s noise or the air that rushes past his face as he celebrates, how good it feels when Fellaini lifts him off his feet for the briefest of moments.

“Tell you about edging,” Dries says hotly in his ear, lips brushing his lobe, and he has to close his eyes and bury his head in someone’s shoulder because it’s gone straight to his dick.

Eden won’t mention it first, something deep in his bones tells him not to. And for a few, brief, distracted moments – they are undefeated in the World Cup, after all, and he scored two goals today – he is able to forget. But that night, he crawls into his bed, meters away from Dries just like he would’ve been if he hadn’t rocked the world today, and his heart is inexplicably pounding out of his chest.

He usually snores, so Eden knows he’s awake. It takes this odd pang of courage from the depths of his gut to say, “Dries?”

“Yeah?” He too is breathless, both blind in the perfect hotel darkness.

“What’s edging?”

Dries chuckles and Eden feels heat rush to his face. He closes his eyes, as if that will make him less nervous. He props up one leg under the blanket and runs his thumb over the seam of his briefs.

“You really want to know?”

“Fuck off, yes. I really want to know,” Eden says, but his voice is too strained to really sound angry. Dries’s bed creaks slightly.

“It’s, uh – ” now it sounds like Dries is concentrating on something – “when you kind of … tease your, uh, body.”

“Hmm?” Eden’s not sure he’s heard right, and he’s so grateful it’s pitch black because he has never blushed this hard.

“Tease your body,” Dries says, annoyed that he has to repeat himself. “Like, without coming.”

Jesus fuck. Eden’s breathing is labored now, the blood rushing to his head as much as his dick. He’s not quite sure when that happened, but something is telling him it is essential that he remain hard, and only the smallest, faintest voice in the back of his head reminds him not to come.

“Why?” he says through gritted teeth.

Dries doesn’t answer for a few seconds, and the sterile hotel silence does nothing to stifle their sounds of unambiguous pleasure.

“Why?” Eden almost yells.

“Fuck,” Dries mutters. His bed creaks massively and he makes noises of pain. Then an interminable silence.

“Did you?”

“No,” Dries says, muffled, like he has a pillow over his face.

“Why?”

“More… effective.” Dries is panting too.

Eden squeezes his eyes tight and wills his dick down. This has stopped being fun: now he just aches to thrust and thrust and come all over someone’s bare chest. The lower half of his body, which these days is almost always a dull throb, feels as if it is going to give out. Gently tucking his softening dick back into his underwear, he breathes deep and replays his second goal in his head until he falls asleep.

Now the days are flying, never enough time for recovery. Thoughts of the next match against England, once an hour at least, send jolts through Eden’s body. It doesn’t matter that they’re basically already through. It’s still the world stage. And this lack of release is really …testing.

When training finishes, he is the first one off the pitch. Not like him, jogging back to the showers, his breath dragging in the cold air behind him. Thibaut frowns and watches Eden go: he is making Lukaku shoot past him – best of thirteen. Which will end up being best of thirty-seven, probably.

But when Thibaut lopes back to the dressing room and gets his kit off for the showers, Eden is still there. Alone, facing the steaming faucet. His hand pressed against the tile like it is the only thing keeping him on his feet. His other hand working slowly between his legs. Thibaut clears his throat. Eden glances up at him, and he looks _wrecked_. Eyes half-closed, mouth red and agape, legs shaking just slightly. His hand has stopped moving, but he is so, _so_ close. He looks down at Thibaut’s hardening dick and then up at his sheepish smile.

Thibaut reaches down to help him, wraps his big hand around Eden’s cock too, and it twitches in their hands. “Not – gonna last,” Eden says, barely audible over the shower.

“It’s okay,” Thibaut says, just as softly, and gets behind him to hold him up. Thibaut’s cock pressed tightly against his ass is driving him crazy, the closeness too much, him barely on his feet. The heat pools in his belly and he has to close his eyes, he gives in, he comes so hard. Thick strands of come shoot all over their hands. He makes some embarrassing noise, and Thibaut is holding him now completely. Letting him come down. 

“You needed that, huh?” he hears Courtois say, and the only part of his brain that he wants to listen to says _This madness isn’t ending yet._ Without allowing himself another cogent thought, he drops to his knees, maintaining eye contact with Thibaut the whole time. Courtois’s cock is leaking pre-come profusely, and he maneuvers them carefully out of the shower’s reach and smears it all over the head and the shaft so Thibaut is moaning and groaning and helpless, this big man so helpless to his touch.

He plays with it, stroking it from shaft to tip over and over, watching Thibaut’s reaction. He holds it from one side and licks the other side like a lollipop. “Please,” Thibaut whispers. He takes his cock in his mouth. It’s difficult, he can’t take it all. It’s messy. But he manages, pressing his tongue against the underside, and one hand holding what he can’t fit. Stroking and stroking.

“Eden,” Thibaut mutters, like he just realized who was sucking his cock. “God, Eden.” Eden could almost laugh. He hums instead, making Courtois swear and hold onto the wall. With his other hand, he reaches for Thibaut’s balls and the big Belgian cries, “No, no, I’m gonna c—I’m gonna come if you do that, don’t—”

Eden obeys but resolves to make him come anyway, taking him deeper into his throat. Thibaut is yelling his curses now and Eden grips one of his legs just to make him feel heavier. “I’m—” is all the warning he gives as he shoots loads of hot, bitter come down Eden’s throat, onto his lips. Eden coughs and wipes his lips off slowly, knowingly, just in case Thibaut looks up in time.

Thibaut sinks to his knees and leans in, getting closer and closer to Eden until they are nose to nose, neither daring to move any further. Until Eden makes their lips brush, until they are kissing, almost in slow motion, lips caressing. Thibaut’s hand goes to Eden’s waist and it is only then that Eden falters, almost automatically. Drops his head and leaves Courtois to stare at the ceiling with a knowing look on his face. Courtois swings himself up to his feet, faster than he ought to be able to, and disappears to the locker room in an instant. Still on autopilot, Eden climbs to his feet, slow as can be.

The release, the endorphins, the rush have not yet left his bloodstream. But he stays there, still half in the shower, running his hands over his face until he can no longer bear to.

They beat England and they beat Japan. Big nations. It sounds good. Eden cannot find the net and neither can Dries, but he's grown accustomed to the feeling of not scoring in a World Cup match. For better or for worse.

Brazil in the quarter finals and then the winner of Uruguay-France. It’s as far as Eden can bear to look ahead, but it’s still too far. Neymar on one side of the pitch and Thiago Silva on the other. Not that he’s scared of anyone, but the Brazilians were the ones he imitated growing up. The most skillful, the boldest, the ones with the most heart. A desperate part of him wishes that Belgium _were_ Brazil, that his native country bled for the shirt. Like he does, and has, and will again. His knees and shins and ankles that aren’t his. 

And they know how to lose in quarters. 

But somehow they beat Brazil and nothing else seems to matter. Even France waiting on the doorstep is forgotten for the night. Eden doesn’t score, Dries doesn’t even play, Thibaut is beaten at his near post and Brazil’s freak own goal is what makes the difference, but _who fucking cares?_ Because they are in the semifinals of the World Cup for the first time since Scifo himself.

They stay up that night, in a Russian bar that smells of ethanol and cigarettes. They’re not really supposed to be there, but Martinez is Spanish and lax sometimes. About some things. Dries sits on Eden’s lap, balancing precariously with a maroon-colored drink in his other hand.

“You’re too heavy,” Eden tries to tell him.

“Pshh.” Dries waves his hand, but it’s the one holding the drink and he spills just a little. “Would you like to sit on _my_ lap instead?”  
  
Eden says no, but it dies in his throat, because Dries is already getting up, dragging him out of his chair and sitting in his seat before he can protest. He pulls him onto his lap by his hips and Eden lets himself fall, laughing, perching sideways.

It’s not a much better fit. “D’you want some?” Dries puts the glass in Eden’s hand and his fingers close around it just in time. He hesitates and Dries laughs. “Don’t worry! ’S delicious.”

Eden takes a sip and can feel it already as he swallows. “Easy!” Dries is laughing even harder. “That’s the good stuff, take it slow.” Eden has the grace to smile sheepishly, and Dries takes his chin in his hand, but Eden smacks him away, which only amuses Dries more. “Good, though, right?”

“Sweet,” is all Eden says. Dries’s hands are on either side of his hips and he doesn’t think he hates it. But so what? They are touching – footballers touch. He swears he’s never thought twice about it before. Suddenly images of Thibaut come racing back to him, of his cock, of his crooked smile, even his smell somehow feels like it’s returning. He fidgets just a little, and Dries’s fingertips grip him firmer. It feels so nice that he closes his eyes for a second.

Then he remembers that he’s Eden Hazard, and that he’s brave. He leans back onto Dries’s chest and whispers in his ear: “So have you come yet?”

Dries’s breathing has sped up. He is completely splayed against the back of his chair, Eden pressing him there. His lids are half-open, and he looks at Eden with undisguised lust. His gaze is so hard it’s almost painful. Finally, _finally_ , he shakes his head.

Eden puts his hand into Dries’s and stands. Dries gets the memo.

“You’ve been good, huh?” Eden is halfway to giggly as they reach his hallway, always looking over their shoulders as if for paparazzi. 

Dries has left his drink and is happy to let Eden guide him. “Yeah. Have you?”

Eden tsks, which is a feat for the pace they’re moving at. “I’m always good!”

“Right,” Dries says doubtfully.

“It’s just here,” Eden says, and he surprises himself by fumbling with the key card. Dries leans against the door like a pin-up girl and stares at him unhelpfully. He finally gets it right and makes a face at Dries before letting him fall in when the door opens.

“Jerk,” Dries manages, but they are both panting. Eden is the one who backs Dries into the wall, holding his face and guiding him into a soft kiss that gets harder and rougher quickly. Dries bites his lower lip and he’s so insistent that Eden cannot help laughing. It’s not unpleasant, but they can’t really laugh and kiss, so Dries pushes him back by his hips and says “What?” 

“Nothing,” Eden says, kissing the apple of his cheek. “I just like you.”

Dries turns his head, embarrassed, and sees the bottle on the bed. He looks mischievously at Eden. “You’re not too drunk, are you?”

“ _Me_?” Eden says incredulously, backing up enough so Dries escapes and runs over to the champagne bottle on the bed. “No. Dries! You know me, I hardly ever... Can you even get that open—”

The champagne bottle goes off like a gun and Dries takes the first swig, getting it all over his “nice” button-down. He hands it to Eden, licking his hands where he’s spilled while keeping his eyes on the other man.

“Dries,” Eden begs.

“Have a sip,” Dries says, the picture of the devil himself. “Semifinals. World Cup.” Eden listens. The champagne is pleasant, sweet on his tongue, and somehow a vision of Dries the stranger buying Eden a drink at a bar, some alternative, fantasy life, flies across his minds-eye before he can stop it. His desperation is obvious, and Dries is inching closer, running his hand lower and lower until it is pressed against the bulge in his jeans.

“So you’ve been good,” Dries says in his ear. Eden cannot speak, can only grunt in reply and push the bottle towards Dries. Dries takes one last swig and wipes his mouth, putting the champagne down on the end table.

Eden has the distinct feeling Dries has been here more often than he has, but he’s determined to hold his own. He glances down. “You’re hard.”

Dries chuckles. “So are you.”

“You’ve no idea how hard I’ve been,” he says, and Dries laughs.

“That’s why you scored, huh?” Dries says lowly. Their bodies are so close, the heat is overwhelming.

“You tell me,” Eden says into Dries’s lips as they finally kiss again. Dries wraps his arms around him, holding him hard and grinding his crotch into Eden’s. Dries takes his shirt off and they both make for the bed, removing clothing on the way. Soon they are both in their briefs, kissing on top of the soft blanket. Dries is gripping his ass tight, letting him fill in between his fingers, almost lifting him up by the bulk of his ass. Eden wants so badly to give in.

“I want to – fuck you,” Dries says as he kisses down Eden’s neck, biting, marking him. “Need to – fuck you—”

“Please please please…”

“What? Tell me.”

“Please fuck me, please…” Eden can feel his face flush.

“Say my name. Say my name,” Dries whispers into the sensitive skin of his neck.

“Dries. Dries, please. Fuck me.”

Dries responds by taking off Eden’s briefs, just halfway, so his legs are somewhat trapped. “You’re so sexy, Eden. You don’t even know…” His hands teasing Eden’s asshole. Fingers _just_ too far away, Eden can feel his dick leaking precome onto the mattress. Dries disappears for a minute and he falls forward onto his hands and knees. Doesn’t even look up because he knows Dries will be back, that whatever he’s doing is the right thing.

He comes back on the other side of the bed, behind Eden. “Got lube. And a condom.”

“Nice of you,” Eden pants. Dries smacks his ass in reply, and then again because he likes the way it jiggles. And then palms it, strokes it, slathers it in the lube that is all over his hands. He teases Eden, playing with his ass, stroking around the hole, till the other man is rutting back and forth. “Dries, come on. Fuck me.”

“What was that?”  
  
“Fuck me, Dries! I need – your – cock…”

“One thing at a time, my love,” Dries says as he puts in one finger. Eden is not as tight as he expected. He fucks it like it’s a cock, ass bouncing so much that Dries has to keep a hand on his own dick. “Damn,” Dries pants. “You’re almost ready.” Second finger. Eden can barely stay upright, his knees splaying out to either side. His head on the mattress as Dries pumps in and out of that spectacular ass.

“Please, Dries." He can only speak in a hushed voice. “Please, please, please. Need. Your. Cock.”

This time Dries has nothing to say. He just grips Eden’s hips tight and eases his cock into Eden’s well-lubricated hole. Eden cries out – this is the first real stretch, and Dries is thick. “Fuck,” he murmurs. Wants to take a picture of this and wank to it for the rest of his life. “Am I your first?” he says without thinking.

Eden chuckles, which Dries hates. No one laughs while he fucks them. He grips tighter, and Eden cries, “Ow!”

“Sorry.”

“Jesus. You’re not the first.”

“Oh.” Dries somewhat deflates. “Who was?”

“Not telling you that, papa.”

“I bet it was Thibaut,” Dries breathes, and that puts them back in the mood again. “He probably… destroyed you.”

Eden groans and holds his leaking, aching cock in his hand. “Harder,” he chokes out. Dries lets his hand find the meat of Eden’s ass and obliges, pushing him into the mattress, letting his cock find friction there.

“Harder!” Dries braces his hand against the top of Eden’s back, fingertips against his neck and thrusts harder like he wouldn’t dare to do to a woman. Eden yells “Harder!” into the mattress and Dries starts seeing stars, just thrusting and thrusting like he may never come at all, and it’s a surprise to him when he comes, just collapses on top of Eden. He rolls off and suddenly the room seems bright and the world small. Eden rolls over too and Dries can see the traces of come on his stomach.

When he has stopped panting, he leans forward and licks Eden’s come like the pervert he is. “You weren’t good after all.”

“I _was_ – good.”

“No, _I_ was good.”

“You are good, Dries.”

“You’re better.”

“Thibaut made me come in the shower,” Eden admits, and Dries collapses into shocked laughter.

“That lucky bastard,” he ends up saying. “That _slut_."

“You could’ve been there.”

“Well,” Dries says, looking awfully regretful. “I… _did_ come that night when we were lying in bed.”

“I knew it! You liar.”

“And you didn't. So you _are_ better than me.”

“Right.”

“Came cause of you,” Dries says, resting his head on Eden’s stomach.

“Well, you know. So did I, eventually.”


End file.
